


Of Lead Balloons and Rainbow Cakes

by redcurlzbychoice



Series: Of Lead Ballons and Rainbow Cakes [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fix It Fic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Good Omens Lockdown, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23984683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcurlzbychoice/pseuds/redcurlzbychoice
Summary: A single line drifted through Crowley’s memory. „Watch you eat cake.“ He winced. O dear Satan, no. He‘d slipped. He‘d really said that aloud? O no no NO! He didn’t. But he had............Just another author‘s cake to be added to the banquet out there already.Crowley’s sigh after „that would be breaking all the rules“ triggered this.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Of Lead Ballons and Rainbow Cakes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738177
Comments: 12
Kudos: 54





	Of Lead Balloons and Rainbow Cakes

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much, DT, MS, DMK and all the crew and of course Neil Gaiman and the sorely missed Terry Pratchett for this awesome treat!

  
So, this had gone down like a lead balloon. Again.

Crowley stared at the phone in his hand. Frowned, rather. Bared his teeth, on the edge of fangs right now because of his inner uproar, and blinked with fiery eyes at the phone in utter devastation.

„You‘re going too fast for me, Crowley,“ was rewinding over and over again in his brain.

He realised he was shaking like his ivy out on the wall in a storm. The thin phone slipped out of his hand, tumbling onto his couch. Crowley slumped next to it for company.

What the fuck? What had all of that been about? Aziraphale calling him, _he_ calling _him_ , chattering about his baking escapades, shocking him to the bone with that youth burglars episode (though he couldn’t stifle a smirk sneaking onto his face when he imagined their faces on being offered _cake_ by their victim. Crowley was ever so proud of his imagination, and their startled, panicked and utterly confused looks did their best to amuse him even now.) This bastard angel, only he could pull such a trick. Thwart stupidity and outrage with sheer kindness and _cake_. For hell‘s sake. An image of Aziraphale emerging from clouds of flour swept his brain. His lower arms were bared and he was kneading the dough for his sourdough loafs. Crowley’s imagination lingered on the play of muscles underneath his skin, on the way flour and sweat combined on this skin, adorning it with a golden glow...

Crowley blinked. Frowned again. Tossed away his sunglasses and held his head in his hands.

The quarantine had made things worse. Too much time with nothing to do, too much time to muse on his feelings. He wasn’t crying. No. No tears. Definitely not. Demons don’t cry, not over angels at last. He was only staring. Staring a hole in the wall, staring a new black hole of genuine desperation into existence. Somewhere out in the Draco galaxy supercluster, probably. Not anywhere near, anyway.

Where had it gone wrong? Aziraphale had positively suggested that he‘d break the rules, but when he had gathered his courage, taken the bait and so carefully offered his company, Aziraphale had bolted once more, backed off completely, ripped Crowley’s heart out.

A single line drifted through Crowley’s memory. „Watch you eat cake.“ He winced. O dear Satan, no. He‘d slipped. He‘d really said that aloud? O no no NO! He didn’t. But he had. He could‘ve just as well kneeled down, on his knees, with a fucking bouquet of red roses between his teeth and asked for his Angel’s hand in marriage. Or straightforward kissed him, right there on these full lips with this perfect Cupid’s bow. (They‘d probably still taste of kirschtorte and that hint of kirschwasser, to round out the flavour. And they‘d taste of Aziraphale... of all things in the universe, they‘d taste of his Angel, and he‘d never ever let go.)

Crowley stared, and his heart turned into a black hole, captivating any light there had been in his restored world.

So, ’k, he‘d given himself away. And had been rejected. Again. He should be getting used to it. He wasn’t. He‘d never be. He‘d go to sleep. No thoughts anymore. No dreams as well, he‘d make sure of that. Just blackness. Void. Voidy, black nothingness. Yeah. That‘s what he needed right now. No more thoughts about this angel, sitting in his reading chair, a book in his lap, a plate with sponge cake on the side table, taking a bite every now and then, making these _salacious_ sounds of innocent delight. No. Go to sleep, damned demon. Embrace nothingness. (These soft arms. This velvety crook of neck. This aziraphalic smell that would be overwhelming so near, so close to his Angel’s skin.)

No more of that. No alarm. Not June, not July. In a century, humanity would have become accustomed to this virus. Probably been hit by half a dozen other scary germs. Aziraphale would be there, still. Hopefully. Maybe he could try again then. Go even slower. He was a serpent, he‘d become a snail, if that would please his Angel. Brother Francis had liked snails. Yes, there’s a plan. Sleep. Snail. Somehow. Someday. (Somewhere. They‘d went to see West Side Story, again, their hands barely touching on the armrest, but near enough so Crowley could bask in the warmth radiating off his Angel’s skin...)

Crowley went to bed, not even miracling his clothes off. But he took the phone with him. All contacts blocked, except for one number. Or rather person. An angel, to be precise. Just in case. (Hope. Fucking hope dies last.)

Crowley fell. Just asleep, for now. He had fallen before. He had expert knowledge on falling. From grace, all those years ago. For Aziraphale, sixthousandandtwentytwo-and-pretty-much-one-half-years ago. And still, he was falling.

...............

About a mile to the east, the Angel of the Eastern Gate stood frozen in his dingy old bookshop, the bakelit earphone still in his hand. The world had turned icy cold. His insides had turned into blue, clear ice. His heart was frozen in between two beats. „I’m afraid that would be breaking all the rules! Out of the question!“ he had spluttered. He could have yelled as well „You‘re going too fast, Crowley!“ It wouldn’t have made any difference. Crowley’s faint sigh reverberated in his auditory cortex. So desperate. Sore. Hurt. So ... disillusioned. 15 seconds earlier, he had sounded so cautiously hopeful. Offered to hunker down with Aziraphale, bringing along a bottle - no, a _case_ , so he‘d been planning to stay longer! - of something _drinkable_ (and Aziraphale knew exactly what to expect of this in Crowley’s usual understatement: the finest Chateaux Latour, and of an excellent year as well. Maybe even a 1990. Yes, definitely a 1990. Crowley wouldn’t bring along anything less than exceedingly excellent. He never did.)

In the last months, since Armagedidn‘t, they had spent so much time together, so many happy hours, sometimes whole days, filled with easy chatter, beautiful music, lovely picnics in St James‘s Park and once down at the sea near the Seven Sisters (the stars up there, so far off from the glowing artificial lights of London! They had lingered there after sunset, their glasses never emptying, and Crowley had pointed out the stars and constellations to him, both lying on their backs, looking up and Crowley had been so close, he had felt Crowley’s body so close to his, felt the coolness radiating off his part serpent body, had been soaking up Crowley’s delicate ordour - musk and cedar and spices and ... stardust. Had soaked up Crowley’s laugh when he had asked for Alpha Centauri, tutting and incredoulous and full of warmth. „Angel, they‘re down in the south these days. Ah, ‘ll take you to South Africa or Chile one day. T’show ya. Excellent vineyards down there as well, y‘know. And you‘d be able to do some blessings. Definitely in need of some blessings, most people down there,“ he‘d said. And they had lain there all night, lost in the stars, and he had looked at Crowley when he‘d heard the faint snore, his Demon having fallen asleep next to him, he had looked at his face all the rest of the night, memorising every line, his fingers twitching, wanting yet not daring to touch ...)

How, why had Crowley ended the conversation so abruptly? Well, when he had answered Aziraphale’s call, initially, he had responded nearly on the rude side, but that was only his usual habit, Aziraphale knew not to huff at that. So he‘d chit-chatted along, desperately hoping to veil his delight in hearing again Crowley’s dark voice, teasing him with temptations, trying to ask him over (just maybe in a slightly Englishness-adapted pussyfooting way). And then Crowley had talked about his heart. Claimed he had none. After defending himself why he stayed in as well, living proof of his kind heart, bless him. And Aziraphale - didn’t know how to respond. A Guardian Angel caught off-guard. So he‘d prattled away, about the burglers, about the cakes (Crowley had a sweet tooth, and he adored bread, Aziraphale knew so well). Until he had asked to come over, in this typical Crowley straight-forward way. Until he‘d said it, hidden between the lines. „Watch you eat cake,“ he‘d said. And _that_ , oh, Aziraphale knew _THAT_ look on his face. Crowley didn’t know, of course, always changing his expression to bloody demon poker face when he felt his eyes on him. But Aziraphale had seen it, perceived it in his angelic soul, this look of careful adoration, never demanding patience, utter endless - love. Love. It had always been there, Crowley’s love. For the world, and for him. And he had panicked, rejected him once more. Ripped his heart out, with a single line. „Breaking all the rules!“ Aziraphale _had_ heard that sigh, as his Demon’s beautiful, kind, _loving_ heart broke into shards. („Right. Setting the alarm clock for July. Good night, Angel.“ - Which July though?) And right there and then, Aziraphale’s heart had stopped, shattered into shards of crystal clear blue ice.

„Well, that went down like a lead balloon.“ Crowley’s very first words rose in his mind, when they’d met for the very first time. Maybe - definitely, it was about time for another first time.

Aziraphale dialled again, very carefully.

„WHAT?“

„Uhm, it‘s me, again, Aziraphale, you know ...“

„Of COURSE I know it’s you, Angel!“ Crowley very nearly screamed. „You’re the only one ...“ A sharp intake of breath, then another desperate sigh. Oh fuck. He was so sick and tired of all these disguises. Sick and tired of their eternal tiptoeing. „You‘re the only one to be able to get through. To me. For me.“

Silence.

„Crowley, now, that is ... very - ehm, you know, of you to say.“

The old landline crackled, but maybe it was the prickling sparks underneath his skin.

„Now, listen, Crowley, I feel the need to apologise. I feel I have been rather rude just now. To you.“

„Ehmgfk,“ Crowley grunted. Words were useless babbles. „Why‘d ya call?“

„Well, I‘ve been thinking. About -just now. About the quarantine. What I said. What you said. About ... slithering over.“

„Yeah? Would you kindly inform me about the conclusions of your musings, then, I’d really rather go back to sleep otherwise.“

„Well, I‘m trying.“ Crowley could literally sense the helpless smile accompanying these words.

„Crowley, dear, I do think I have come up with a way to - well, stick to the rules of quarantine, yet allowing you to „hunker down“ here with me, as you suggested. Would you ... still?“

Silence.

„Did you now, Angel?“ Words were useless babble, only means to offer his heart, again. More than six thousand years, and he‘d never learn.

„Well, if you DID still want to come over, you see, nobody would need to see. Or know. Except us, of course.“

„’k?“ Cautious. Patiently.

„Didn’t you tell me you can travel along the phone line? See, nobody would see you. You could come and go as you like. You wouldn’t set a bad example. The shop‘s closed, anyway, so nobody would notice. We could order some food, maybe. Delivery. Only, if you‘d be seen by the delivery person ...“

„Yes, Angel? What then?“ he asked, hoping his voice sounded soft only, not broken.

„Well, you‘d, we‘d have to pretend that we were - together. If that bothers you ...“

„Angel, put down that phone. Now!“ Fuck, his voice WAS breaking.

„Hang up on you? I ... I don’t understand.“

„NO! Not hang up. Just - put it down. Put the receiver down. Now!“

He heard the enlightened sigh (was there delight as well, he was sure there was delight as well, but hope can be treacherous), concentrated and abandoned his physical body, to materialize a fraction of a nanosecond later on the other end of the line, full sized and stretching his long limbs, quite breathless, but not for the effort of traveling so fast.

„That was an excellent idea, Angel. Really. Truly excellent. Couldn’t bring the wine though. Might get it later. Now, about the delivery people....“ He was spluttering, too. His knees still shaking from lightspeed (pretence! Oh, there _was_ delight in Aziraphale‘s face, he literally lit up the whole shopwith his de _light_ ed smile!), he stood before his Angel, panting. Sick of disguise, tired of tiptoing.„Why pretend?“

„Crowley! I ... so soon. Now, still, I asked you. And you did. Oh, it’s so good to see you really. How long it’s been? Five weeks?“

„Angel, I swear, I‘ll be down that line again and off to sleep, if you don’t stop that bloody gibberish. I don’t care what the fucking world out there thinks. Only thing I wanna know is what you think. If ... you’d be ... pretending?“

He shouldn’t be looming. He wanted to be aloof, but he wasn’t. He could barely stand by himself, keeping his hands to himself, not taking Aziraphale’s hands to hold and - he HAD reached out and was holding his hands, and Aziraphale’s fingers entwined themselves with his.

„No, I wouldn’t.“ Aziraphale’s eyes dived into his unshielded gaze (his sunglasses forgotten on the couch in Mayfair). „I‘d very much like to ... spend quarantine with you.“

„If the humans found out, I‘d need to stay here for - until all this over.“ Fuck this crackling in his voice. Did Aziraphale understand at all ...?

„As far as I‘m concerned, you might as well stay over here until ALL this is over.“ Aziraphale’s voice was so faint as well, barely more than a whisper. „You know, this ... world. Over. Next Armageddon, really. Maybe beyond. Hopefully beyond.“

Crowley’s fingers tightened. „Eternity?“

A mere breath. Soft fingers responding, tightening, caressing. A smile.

Then his hands were empty, all of a sudden, and Aziraphale was rushing to the shop, away from him, out to the front, leaving him bare, empty, torn.

„Angel! What ...“

But Aziraphale already stood in the miraculously opened doors and shouted, positively belted out to Soho, London, the world, Heaven and Hell alike:

„I wish to announce that „A.Z. Fell and Co“ now indeed has a partner! We‘ll change the sign later. Just that you know!“

He turned, walked, no, bopped back to Crowley, his smile defintely lightning up the whole shop.

„Well, indeed, so, that’s settled. Now, didn’t you say something about cake?“

„Ngk?“

„Because there‘s this special Demon‘s Food Speciality I‘ve been peckish about for quite some time now. Do you think I might try a bite?“

As he leaned in to savour this unique treat, Crowley‘s arms involuntaryly pulled him in, so close. This velvety crook of neck. This aziraphalic smell that was overwhelming so near, so close to his Angel’s skin. The lingering taste of Kirschtorte on his lips, his tongue.The taste of Aziraphale in his mouth. The feel of Aziraphale exploring his mouth, his skin, his body, sparkling explosions of pleasure under his skin.

Once, watching his Angel eat cake had been Crowley’s greatest delight. Now, he found himself peckish for cake as well. Especially this one peculiar kind of Angel Cake he‘d never have enough of. Never.

The lead balloon turned into a rainbow. For all the world to see.

.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this works only as these two are indeed incapable of spreading the virus.
> 
> In quarantine, stay at home. Don’t play with fire. Choose your company wisely. Someday it all will be fayed and done. 
> 
> A virus has neither heart nor brain. It‘s up to us humans now to show we indeed do have both.
> 
> Please stay home safely and especially: May you all stay healthy!
> 
> ————————-
> 
> Well, having thought about this a little while longer I found there‘s way not enough Rainbow Cakes in it. So, (there‘s gonna be) IS another piece of cake up for that other anniversary date on May 10th...


End file.
